


he hath widow'd many a one

by welcome_equivocator



Category: Coriolanus - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Blood, Fond memories of warfare, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcome_equivocator/pseuds/welcome_equivocator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aufidius doesn't know how it will end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he hath widow'd many a one

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend a couple of years ago and only just got around to writing down. These two aren't based so much on any particular casting as on our interpretation of the text.

It wasn't as much like the fighting as Aufidius might have hoped. If he was being honest, which he usually was (though perhaps not the way he used to be), he had hoped it might be _better_  than the fighting. He had hoped- it seemed foolish now- but he  _had_ hoped- 

He had hoped that Marcius might feel the same way. It had certainly seemed like he should when he remembered ( _did_ he remember? or were they dreams?) all the times they had screamed their way into a kind of embrace on the battlefield. He thought in those moments that he'd be content to see nothing but that sharp and empty look in Marcius' eyes forever, to lose himself in those eyes and grapple with that body, blood jumping in his veins.

But this was nothing like that. Or perhaps it was. He found himself unable to say. Marcius' submission in private both thrilled and angered him; Marcius' outward dominance among his Volsces had the same effect.

He felt the coin that bore their twinned faces slow in its mad spinning- it was about to fall, but which way he couldn't tell. He had the feeling neither of the alternatives would please him.

 

* * *

  
After everything, Aufidius lies. His rage is not gone, not displaced by sorrow, just sharing room with it, heavily. The way they did, he supposes. He supposes the rage will make him a better soldier, but what does it matter anymore? Who does he have to best? He thinks that for all that, he might rather have found peace.

As he stares at his brother-enemy's bloodstained face it reminds him of that day in Corioli. That, not this, is the face that will haunt Aufidius' dreams. Not this shattered mask, newly smashed by his order, but the man turned dragon breathing death into his face. A noble memory indeed. He follows the bier.


End file.
